The Vampire, Javert
by Darth Pooky
Summary: Javert's plans for suicide are foiled when he is bitten by a vampire. Forced to cope with his unfortunate situation, he is soon aided by a slightly loopy, renegade vampire, a street urchin, and...Valjean?
1. Prologue

**DISCLAIMER: Neither Corvid Angel nor I have the pleasure of owning any of the characters from Les Miserables, though we DO own anyone who is not obviously from the book. We are still trying to decide who owns Javert.**

**A/N: **Another co-written fanfic from yours truly! This was a bit of a crack idea made because Anthony Perkins once played a vampire, and of course we HAD to say, "Hey, what if _Javert_ was a vampire?" We hope you enjoy the story.

"**The Vampire, Javert"**

PROLOGUE

_Journal Entry - 18 February 1832_

Many apologies for not having written in some time; I simply cannot find a moment suitably quiet enough in which to record my thoughts. Not that anyone will care if I do or not. Still, I do believe the events of late have caused a need for me to return to the pen. Language is still a chore for me to grasp, as it always has been, yet I don't suppose that matters. This is my personal diary, after all.

A strange affair today. It began this morning after he tended to these new duties set upon him by the absent superintendent. Quite a freeze today, if my observations have been keen enough, and as was natural for a mortal, he shivered and rubbed his hands together vigorously. I wonder with some amusement if it were possible that he was not in some ways already dead, for he never exhibited the slightest bit of concern for anything around him. His nature was to consider his work, nothing more. It was at this time he moved to the stove in the hall, standing in front of it and warming those intriguing large hands of his. Then that youth came. I have not yet had the privilege of learning his name, but it is of no consequence; he was merely there to charge the inspector with a new case. Something about an extortion and kidnapping, I believe.

It was all too plainly obvious that after the youth left he became elatedly ecstatic, ordering men here and there, changing his schedule, walking proudly about the building wearing that devilishly charming half-smile of his. It is always amusing to see him smile. He does it so little, and yet I should like to know what makes his mind work. Such a complicated mechanism he is.

His raid on the address in question went well; I followed him, naturally, though I could not hold back my utter amusement when I saw that man he's been after escape through the window behind the house. The man saw me, I think. However, he did not seem to pay me much mind, as he was much more concerned with getting as far away as possible from my seething inspector, who was up on the second floor positively fuming in his head. He knew that man had been there. And he knew that his pride had let him escape again. What rage he must be feeling! I've not a clue why it should amuse me so much; one would think after almost two hundred and fifty years the world would stop giving them surprises, but that in itself appears to be a surprise.

He intrigues me more and more.

_Journal Entry - 5 June 1832_

The army now realizes the seriousness of this uprising. They have begun to challenge these sad excuses for barricades, and to my immense amusement they are having quite a time dealing with them. Of course some were easier to take down than others, but the one on…ah, wherever it may be, it's the one _he's_ at. I suppose they thought it clever to institute a spy among the revolutionaries, but it continues to bemuse me as to why they sent _him_ of all people. No, this says nothing to his efficiency, but really, they should have known than to send someone whose skills at blending in are veritably non-existent. I hope for the sake of the Interior that their choice was not made because of a shortage of men, though the thought does seem unlikely. Not that it matters anyway.

He was captured, unfortunately. Unmasked by an urchin; how quaint! I should say that came as a delightfully painful blow to his pride, and I will truthfully state that I am disappointed I did not get to observe the look on his face when they found him out. They've tied him to a post in the lower room of their outpost behind the barricade. To make matters even more deliciously complicated, that man he's been after has joined them. My current position does not allow me to watch either of them, but it is excellent for watching this impossibly hopeless struggle. Moral is not absent, but it is low. It is certain they will lose; the only question that remains is how. I watch with mild interest as they hunch tiredly over tables preparing their weapons. He stands tied to the pole, face grim but accepting. He knows what will become of him. It shall be quite a display.

_Journal Entry - 6 June 1832_

A surprise! That man has let my dear inspector go! Of all the possible actions, I had not even considered this one. What, no revenge? Quite startling indeed.

The revolutionaries were overcome as I expected; the only survivor, the boy who went to the inspector some months ago, was carried out by that man. They went through the sewers I learned later, and met with the inspector on the beach. Did not watch their encounter closely; it held no interest for me, and neither did the ride back to the boy's home. The inspector is afraid. I can smell it. He is anxious, confused, torn, yet in his agony he remains stoic. A curious and thoroughly intriguing man, he continues to be a source of amusement.

After dispensing with the boy and then the man, he went to a bridge, the Pont-au-Change. I do not know what he was thinking precisely, but I can guess as much: he cannot cope. I watched in silence. But no, he decided to adjourn to the police station. Unfinished business, perhaps? I did not look into it, but I will assume so, for he came back to that same spot he'd been standing at for the past hour, turning over his thoughts with trembling hands. He is in turmoil now; it is all too clear in his gait, his posture, his expression. How shall he deal with this, I wonder?

_Journal Entry - 7 June 1832_

Plans went better than expected. I struck as he was leaning over, shuffling his feet so that he might jump. There was no struggle, only my teeth in his neck and his expression twisted into utter shock. That face they make when they realize their world has just ended; it never ceases to fill me with excitement. He fell into the river not a few moments later. Now the only thing left is for them to find the body. I should think that will take a day or two, but no matter; I shall wait with undisguised anxiousness. Of course, I have all the time in the world as it were.

He's mine now. And he will be mine forevermore.


	2. The Morgue

Morgue

Gilles Previer sniffed the air and grimaced. There were few things that could ever entice him to enter the morgue, but today his superiors had enumerated most of them. Someone had to attend, provide identification, and order disposal of the remains. The deceased had been a police inspector, after all.

The damp, grey corridor, poorly lit, stretched before him, as inviting as a walk to the gallows. He paused briefly at the desk, where the attendant took his name and pointed him toward the third door. Typical! His destination was fated to be the room furthest away, deepest in the bowels of this wretched monument to death.

His pace was quick and steady; the sooner he could dispense with formalities, the sooner he would be back outside in the comparatively fresh air of dust and smoke. He paused only long enough to read the yellowed placard tacked on the wall. 'Examination Room'.

Rather a moot point, Previer quietly mused. What need did any of these poor devils have for an examination? Perhaps the administrators thought 'Necropsy' was too callous a word? The door was partly open, and so the police sergeant pushed it further and stepped over the threshold, to find himself practically gagging from the stench.

Far to his right, another door stood open, and through it came the sound of water, being sprayed from a hose. He could see a workman in apron and boots, washing down a naked and elderly female corpse, hanging from the wall. Near to choking on his lunch, Previer turned his head and coughed behind a fist. The rest of his surroundings were just as grim.

A tall man, fair-haired and wearing spectacles, stood beside a slate top table. The fellow was in his shirt sleeves, wearing an apron, and brandishing a scalpel. There was a body on the table, heavyset and ruddy skinned. The sergeant mistook the corpse for a man, possibly a Moor. A second glance proved it had walked in life as female, and the settling of blood had given the skin its dark cast. As a police officer, he was familiar with such conditions. His prior chance encounters with such situations were more than sufficient for him.

Two or three attendants were working around the room, oblivious to the visitor, filing charts, carrying buckets, or using a scrub broom near the drain.

"I beg your pardon?" The blond gentleman finally spoke. "Is there something I can do for you, sergeant?"

His caller was only too happy to focus attention on the speaker, who smiled politely and wiped his blade on the blood smeared apron.

"Yes, I was sent by headquarters." Previer explained in brief. "You are the doctor?"

"Ah yes. I am Dr. Bouvier. We've been waiting for you." He stepped around the table, idly cleaning his hands with a rag that seemed already covered to its limit in filth. He motioned to one of the assistants. "Number 47".

The officer was obliged to wait as the young workman went to fetch the mentioned 'Number 47'.

"You are alone?" The doctor seemed surprised.

"Yes, sir. And I apologize for the delay. They are rather busy at the ward today, and I was the first man available."

"And you have some knowledge of the deceased? There was a card in his pocket, but we can't say with any certainty it is the same man."

"Inspector Javert." Previer pursed his lips and nodded. "I will recognize him readily enough, I should think. That is, unless he suffered an injury to his face?" The sergeant felt himself cringe inside; how better to make an unpleasant duty worse, than to add a mutilation?

A metal cart had now been delivered, and a corpse, shielded by a greasy and stained canvas shroud, lay stretched on it. Bouvier excused his man with a wave of hand, and rather abruptly, turned the canvas sheet down, revealing the body to midsection. Previer was shocked by the rather tactless motion, but did not flinch.

"Found wedged under a boat. Scared some poor fool half to death." The doctor related the essential facts in an indifferent tone, though he seemed to be admiring the wax-like figure, as if a sleeping friend. "You'll note I have not as yet done an invasive exam." Here Bouvier ran his finger along the lifeless chest, demonstrating the absence of incision. "Do you recognize him?"

The sergeant stared for a few silent moments. The corpse seemed smaller, somehow, then a man of Javert's height-- but was that not always the way with a prone figure? The hair was full, thick and black, bordered by his well kept side whiskers. The skin appeared a bit pale, somewhat moreso than gypsy blood had shown it in life. Shoulders broad, arms leanly muscled, chest well formed and as smooth as a youth's. He would not have thought a man of Javert's years and habits could possess so ageless an appearance behind all that starch and regulation.

"It is Javert." Previer confirmed. "You've determined how?"

"Without an internal study, I can give rudimentary conclusion that he drowned. When stripped and prepared, quite a quantity of river water was expelled from his mouth. He was obviously alive when he entered the water." Bouvier rifled through the dark thatch of hair that crowned the dead man's head, to further explain. "There is no evidence of a blow, no swelling, or fracture demonstrated on palpation. No entry nor exit wound of projectile or blade anywhere-- the body is in remarkable health-- apart from being dead, of course. The only mar seems to be a redness at the side of his throat, in one area, here."

"Could he have been throttled, or strangled?" Previer offered, as he might on any investigation. He diverted his gaze from the doctor's face, to the area mentioned.

"Well, I can tell you that the wound was not postmortem, some damage to the body as it floated along with the current. Notice the darker region? Indicating an effusion of blood to the vicinity? It appears to be a slight irritation, in response to an eruption of the skin, possibly a boil, or other pustule. Hmmm. Or the infected bites of a flea. Almost as if he attempted to puncture and drain the infection himself. In any event, your man suffered this injury sometime prior to his death, but not specifically at the time of his death. There's the absence of further marks and discolored bruising as one would find from a ligature, or manual strangulation. And no defensive bruising, which leads me to believe it is not related to cause."

"Very well. Death by drowning." The officer had seen, and smelled, quite enough. "If you feel confident enough without…cutting him?"

Bouvier shrugged. He was happy to forego this routine procedure, having a backlog already prepared and awaiting his attention, all cases of questionable death. If the police felt no need to pursue the matter, neither would he.

"I understand suicide is suspected?" The doctor remarked casually and tossed the cover back in place with little show of humanity or respect. Previer seemed disturbed by the notion that Javert would take his own life. "You needn't act surprised, sergeant. There were plenty of rumors concerning a missing Inspector, long before he surfaced. No matter. Will the family be expected to collect him?"

"He has no family. At least, I don't believe so."

"Hm. I suggest you have someone at your office make a search of the records. I would hate to see him tossed into a pauper's lot, prematurely. Especially as an outraged relation or two could prove most aggravating to your office as well as mine. Unless your department or some friends would care to see to his arrangements?"

Previer already knew that was unlikely, unless someone from Javert's past, perhaps with a odd sense of loyalty, were to appear. But all this would take time, to discover or eliminate.

"Where will you keep him?"

"Not here, despite what you assume about our facilities." The doctor waved a man forward, took a ledger from him and then had the mortal remains of Inspector Javert taken away. "He has been identified by the State, and we are under no obligation to retain him further. For the duration, I can see he is removed to the holding vault at St. Vincent's yard, if that is convenient for you?"

Previer thought a moment; as the only representative of the department, he was responsible for this decision. He could easily sign the release that would place the remains in an unmarked public plot, provided by the auspices and expense of the State. Still, it would perhaps be better to err on the side of caution.

"Yes, alright. You will have him redressed and placed in a plain box, removed to storage in St. Vincent's holding vault. I am sure any possible family would appreciate that we afford him some semblance of dignity."

"Very well sergeant. I will just need you to sign the papers for disposal."

As simple as that; a few strokes of a pen and Previer would be free to escape the miserable sights and stench of the place, for sunlight and more breathable air. It was ironic, that those same few strokes may be the only acknowledgment given the Inspector's life-- or death.


	3. Something Sweet

Bare feet padded quickly over the wet stones. A shadow raced through the alleys toward the cemetery, embracing the wall once it was reached.

'Stockings, shoes, stockings, shoes, must remember, stockings, shoes.'

Thoughts and nonsense. A whisper breathed against the stones as the shadow rose and poured itself over the ragged wall, to be swallowed by the blackness beyond. Unseen, it moved again on its eager pace, through the damp grass first, then jumping from stone to stone. 'Stockings, shoes-- better shoes than just stockings. Ah! Chocolate! Something sweet-- music on the tongue-- tomorrow, I promise. Stockings and shoes!'

The churchyard of St. Vincent's was crowded with angels and monuments, crypts and crosses. Gently sloping hills with curving paths, full of ancient trees that hugged the ground, it was darker than night itself. Still the shadow danced and darted, fully at home in the blackness, never slowing or stumbling. Nothing ever moved among the graves at this hour.

No living thing at all.

At the back of the property, there was a door in the side of the hill; a heavy door of oak and iron, stenciled in faded paint, 'V-3'.

The shadow stopped abruptly, as if the hill itself had called out for attention. Nothing. It stood on tip-toe, drawing in the heady scent of damp earth and decay. Such a rich, delicious smell. It moved toward V-3 slowly now.

'Something sweet, in cream, with roses.'

Careful, breathless, anxious but restrained. Thoughts wandering-- gibberish that spoke of a yearning for chocolate, and coffee, and pastries, and a lover's kiss.

Shade, the form of a hand against the door. It opened outward at the touch, and one last glance into the endless night was assurance enough. No one heard. No one knew. No one was there.

'Some-thing, sweet-thing, apples-and-cinnamon, all for my stockings-and-shoes….'

The vault was as cold as every grave St. Vincent could boast. It was the winter vault, third of three, where coffins and their mortal contents were held until the spring thaw allowed for proper inhumation. It was June now, and all the former residents were finally tucked away with their families and friends. All removed, but one.

The stone walls were damp, the air musty, and the blackness, complete. But Darkness knows its own, and bare feet descended the three steps with all the certainty of a traveler returning to the familiar rooms of home. Crouching, it could see the single, plain, pine wood box lying against the far wall. There was another moment of hesitation; keen ears perked up for any sound-- slight as the breath of a sparrow, or the sigh of nit. Happily, nothing again.

'But nothing now doesn't mean nothing soon or later. Nothing for nothing, sweet but swift.'

Creeping like a cat, the Darkness crossed the space until fingers could taste the fresh cut coffin planks. There was no time to waste, savoring the touch of boards so new they practically pulsed with sap. Hands now tore at the lid, wood groaning and shrieking on the nails that held it secure. It was peeled quickly away and pushed aside to reveal its secret.

A man.

He was seen with eyes that could pierce every corner of the night, and yet, not merely with eyes. The picture formed complete in that busy, tortured brain; it was seen, smelled, felt, heard, and tasted all at once. Cold flesh, stilled and silent blood, the faintest whisper of a heart not allowed the grace to die. One beat, stirred perhaps by some unconscious recognition, then slowly, another. The simple nearness of one of its kind, echoing that deadened thrump…. thrump… thrump. Not the heartbeat known in life, but a beat nonetheless.

Again, ears alert, rewarded once more by silence.

'Quickly, quick, almost there-- almost chocolate. Oh so pretty.'

It was dangerous to dwell on those thoughts, however fleeting, inspired by the sight of so perfect a corpse. Fine sculpted features, though pinched and still pained with the dissatisfaction of life. Black hair, silvered lightly with age, dark lashes and brows, framed by thick whiskers down his cheeks. Black somber clothing, a hint of poorly dressed collar, and cravat-- There was a coat bundled-- not even folded-- over his legs. How the attendants wanted to keep those clothes for themselves.

Even a phantom shade has temptation. Fingers shivered with the fleeting caress of that alabaster face, that line of cheekbone, and jaw. But there was no time, and any moment of pause was a step closer to oblivion.

'Wretched me, wretched me.'

Teeth sank into flesh, opening a black vein of a wrist, and the Darkness pressed this bleeding wound to the dead lips. Almost immediately there came a muted gasp, not unlike that of a dying man who suddenly realizes his condition. Eyelids flickered, but did not open, as a slight tremor passed through the corpse. At first the blood flowed freely of its own, trickling thick through lips and teeth, down to tongue and further still, to throat. A moment passed, uncertainly for the Darkness, who watched and waited fearfully. If this humble offering was not accepted, all was lost. Then slowly the flow was drawn, weakly, as a sleeper might answer a dream.

Relief.

It had not been too late. The exchange lasted a few moments more, until enough had been consumed to assure success. Satisfied the deed was done, the fount was withdrawn. It was sufficient, allowing the body to remain at rest, with only the most feeble tick of pulse.

'Too much, too soon, not as sweet. As sleep. Sweet sleep. Or chocolate!'

Another passing caress of fingers, and then the lid was hastily replaced. No trace of blood on lips, to give away the consummation. With confidence in a purpose assured, the shadow flew from the dank vault, closing the door in its wake without the slightest touch.

'Shoes and stockings, stockings and shoes. So much to gain, so much to lose!'

Nothing but the sightless eyes of marble angels bore witness, to an act as noble in kindness, as it was final in its treachery.


	4. A Meeting of Aquaintances

All sounds in the graveyard were hushed, not a noise pervading the inert necropolis that humid June night. The moon, partially hidden behind blackened clouds, shone its scattered beams of light across the wilting grass which seemed to be suffocating in the damp, muggy air. The eerie silence was unnatural, the absence of sound disconcerting, almost as if it was a premonition, a forewarning of something terrible. Indeed, even the lifeless denizens buried deep under the soil seemed to understand that something was amiss, and all at once the summer heat gave way to a sweeping breeze, bitter and cold.

A figure was standing at the entrance to the plot, motionless as it quietly surveyed the landscape with beady eyes, picking out every detail with practiced ease. After a moment, the figure seemed to decide that everything was satisfactory, and began to stroll forward, tilting its head to one side awkwardly. As it walked into the strips of moonlight, the figure's appearance was revealed unabashedly.

A man. He was of average height and weight, but he was a little more rounded in his stomach than one might expect. He had very pale skin that glowed unnaturally whenever he passed through the bands of light. As his face lit up, an aquiline nose was prominent, as was a thin smile bordered by small lips, enhancing his ominous dark eyes which looked dead in their slightly sunken sockets. There was a tan tinge to his pale skin, suggesting that wherever he was from, it was clear he was not from France. He was neatly dressed in a reddish jacket with a black vest, matching black pants and shoes finishing off the simple yet tasteful outfit. He wore no hat, and his shoulder length black hair was tied back with a fanciful little bow. Perhaps the strangest thing about him was that even though it was a positively sultry night, the man, dressed formally, did not have a single bead of sweat upon his brow. He showed no signs of breath as he walked, which made his appearance all the more unsettling.

He weaved his way through the headstones easily, movements graceful, hands behind his back as he stared straight ahead, seeming to know the route to his destination by heart while a smirk played at his lips eerily.

Something pricked his mind. Someone was there.  
Making it clear he was in no hurry, the newcomer took his time slowing down to an eventual stop next to one of the weathered gravestones, looking ahead listlessly, almost amused by the intrusion.

"I know you're there. It's not that hard to feel you watching me." His voice was low and rich as he spoke, every syllable sounded out clearly, and his diction near perfect yet unable to conceal an obvious accent. He paused, letting his words sink into the intruder's mind. "Why don't you come out, so you may watch me properly?" The smirk grew, threatening to reveal his teeth.

There was a snicker. "…here kitty, kitty…" The voice was feminine, playful and teasing in manner. He recognized the voice instantly, but he hadn't needed the voice to realize who had been watching him. He waited patiently as a few moments of silence hung in the air tensely. Then, he heard her speak again. "Kitty, kitty. I have a saucer of milk…"

Without turning around, the man located the source of the woman's voice. It was coming from behind him, above his head. A tree, perhaps? Without losing that natural grace of his movements, he turned around slowly, eyes rising as his wide smirk twitched into a grin, flashing his slightly yellowed teeth briefly. A tree indeed. Her voice was somewhere at the base of the branches.

"Will you not come down?" There was belittling mockery in his tone as he stared up at the point where her voice had come from, not able to see her, but knowing full well she was there. "It might be easier on your neck...in more than one way." He chuckled lowly at his own humor.

A few moments later, a woman descended the tree, hugging the branches and bark tightly, her eyes dull as she carefully observed the man who had called her out. She set foot on the ground, standing up with a slight hunch in her shoulders, bare-legged with only a tattered petticoat and jacket to shield her skin from the environs. Her hair was a rat's nest as ever, the mousy brown-colored strands darkened in the shadows, perhaps even further darkened by the dirt and grease that had built up on it over the weeks. The woman's mouth was twisted into a lopsided smile, her expression silly as she bowed low.

"Ah, _bella, bella,_ M. L'Comte. The beautiful Dominic – _bellisimo!_" She waved her hands exaggeratedly towards him. "We are honored by your presence." There was a sparkle in her dull eyes as she spoke. "We do not see you often, walking among the dead." She gestured to the graves surrounding them. "No, your place is among the living!"

Mockery. It was quite like Merci to denigrate his Italian origins, no matter how playfully she did so. Dominic curled his lip, revealing his yellowed teeth again along with a disturbingly sharpened canine. But just as soon as the look had come it was gone again, replaced by a deep, throaty laugh, too monotonous to be natural. Dominic's shoulders barely shook in his laughter as he grinned at the woman in front of him, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"I walk among the living only to take the dead with me. You should know that better than the rest, Merci." His face changed again, screwing into a ridiculously hopeful expression, daring his companion to say something all the while never taking his calm, piercing gaze off of her.

She played with her hair in one hand as she walked her fingers along the tree bark slowly, refusing to look at him. "The difference in the living and the dead…is as soft…as a kiss." She seemed to be speaking to no one in particular, her voice soft, almost mournful, perhaps remembering a time that had long since died. Immediately after finishing her statement, she slammed her forehead purposefully against the tree, as though she were trying to clear her head, and once again raised her head to meet Dominic's eyes, the lunatic smile once again on her face. "Pity they cannot return your favor – oh, _stupido! 'scusa, 'scusa,_ - I offend-" She bowed low again several times in succession, mockingly repentant. "Dominic will walk with whoever he pleases…I am but filth beneath your boot." Her mouth puckered into a demure expression, sticking one shoulder out as she hunched down more.

Dominic tilted his head. Naturally he was used to Merci's ramblings which he had learned to ignore, but her unquestionable insanity was not the issue at present. Curiosity noticeably piqued, he gave her a gentle, fatherly smile, the darkness of his heart hidden but omnipresent as he spoke. "My dear Merci, what brings you here?" His eyes watched her unblinkingly as she began to circle the tree carefully.

"I smelled something…something dark and wet…" she laughs silently, fingers still dancing on the bark. "Sometime I wait for lovers to meet. Some people! No respect for the dead! Lovers…or sluts and their buyers – renters. I'm not picky. A meal is a meal…but seldom chocolate…" She blinked innocently at the stoic figure watching her intently. "And I was hoping to find some shoes, in the bargain." After all, her dinner companions would have no need for them after she was done.

"Were you now?" Dominic took a few steps forward, his movements continually graceful and smooth. It was the same insane Merci; nothing had changed. And yet Dominic could not help but get the feeling that he was missing something. There seemed to be a piece he was lacking, a hole somewhere that remained unfilled, an unanswered question…something suspicious. Could it have something do to with Merci, perhaps?

Of course not. He brushed off the ridiculous thought easily. No, it was only Merci spouting her inanities again. He didn't even bother trying to 'read' her anymore; he knew well how impossible a task that was. What motive could he find in a mind filled with stray thoughts flying every which way? Still, it was quite an interesting coincidence that she should be here, in the same cemetery as Javert. But that was all it was: coincidence. Or was it? Knowing Merci…ah, no matter. He shifted his weight smoothly as he lifted his head up in level regard.

"You won't find much here, I'm afraid. The dead don't tend to keep fresh blood in them. And there are more comfortable places to make love, of that I am certain." Dominic's smirk turned into a pointed grin. "How are you, dear Merci?"

"HowamIwhat?" Merci slurred, tongue tripping over itself as she gave Dominic a glassy-eyed look. "Keeping? How-am-I-keeping?" She grimaced, closing one eye as if in pain, but quickly regained her composure. The haggard woman straightened up, careful to keep her thoughts confused and distance safe. "See for yourself, sir," she answered, bitterness lurking just beneath her tone. "Thanks to you I am as beautiful as I was that summer night, when you crossed me over. I am as graceful, as witty, as lovely as ever…" The distant, mournful toll of a church bell sounding the hour echoed through the graveyard suddenly, the hollow sound disturbing the tension that had been there moments before. Merci snapped to attention, loose strands of her hair flying about, eyes wide in apparent shock as her head turned to the direction of the noise. "I'll be late for the theatre!" she exclaimed melodramatically. Looking back at Dominic, she swept low in another exaggerated bow. "Oh, _prego, prego,_ Maestro! I must be off!" There was a quick, unobtrusive glance into his eyes, and then without another word, Merci spirited away, eager to leave Dominic's company and be lost in shadows.

Dom looked after her, his head tilted upwards in amusement as his eyes lingered on the grass she had tread upon. "Mind yourself out there, Merci. I wouldn't like to think that you were getting into any mischief." It is a warning, just in case his intuition was right. "Be a good girl, won't you?" His tone was poisonously sweet, cooing, condescending even. He knew Merci could hear him, lost in shadows or not.

Merci fled through the shadows, her mind spitting out jumbled thoughts as she swiftly navigated the path out of the graveyard and onto the cool cobblestone streets. ''Hundreds of hammers, all at once…and every tree…cannot build a ship soon enough for me."

Did he know? Or suspect? No; he would have never let her go if he had the faintest idea. Dominic was too sure of himself to think of suspecting that she knew anyway. Merci was out of the churchyard and clattering over the rooftops in moments. Her footfalls were soft, barely even audible to the bystanders chancing a stroll this humid night, and she moved so quickly that even if someone had heard, they would have never known the source of such queer sounds. She bounced along the roofs for a few minutes. Suddenly, she paused, her eyes darting around her as she sensed someone close by. No…not just one presence…two. Carefully, Merci peered over the edge of the building she was on, taking great measures not to dislodge any of the shingles. In a corner by some stairs on a roof just below, there was a pair of drunken lovers, whispering in each other's ear fervently. Merci tilted her head unconsciously as she observed the sight, a pleased expression crossing her countenance after a moment.

"Hello...what have we here?"

oOo

Senses…they were coming back to him. Slowly, but they were coming back nevertheless. Feelings…sensations…weak, but they were there, prodding him, stirring his thoughts like a pebble disturbed a still pond. In the proverbial pond, darkness moved slowly creating a void as a faint string of consciousness returned to him. But he was only lucid enough to think one thing: shadows. Shadows were draped over everything, everywhere. They were choking him, whispering cruel, harsh words in his ear, jeering at him softly.

Liquid…liquid was dripping down his throat, leaving a burning trail where it had been. Unpleasant…pain. Fiery pain! Such…blazing…._PAIN!_

Javert's eyes shot open as he gasped, promptly choking on the liquid still tumbling down his throat which caused some of the substance still in his mouth to dribble down his chin, leaving warm trails against his skin as it dripped onto his clothes. He made a disgusted noise as he tasted iron, shakily lifting a hand to wipe off his mouth. He found it unimaginably difficult to perform the simple task of lifting his arm, and weakly swiped at his mouth, coming away with dark smears on his black sleeves. That smell…it was blood. There was no question. As little sense as he had at that moment, he knew exactly what the liquid tasted like, felt like, smelled like, and looked like. He knew everything about it. The wetness trickled into his stomach, setting his insides aflame as it traveled further downwards. He moaned in agony, clutching his stomach tightly as though that was going to relieve his anguish, his wits still not about him yet. What was this pain?! What was happening to him? What were these….strange sensations? He let out another tortured cry before the pain began to disperse, easing him back to reality as it went, like a soft, rolling wave at low tide. When it all had gone, he relaxed a little, slouching as he noticed that he had moved himself to an upright position.

Upright? Had he been sitting? Looking down, the ex-inspector saw pine-colored wood. A closer look revealed…a box. He was sitting in a box. A coffin.

"Although I do hate to intrude on your current mental distress, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that your awakening was really quite amusing."

Javert struggled to look over his left shoulder. His weary eyes fell upon a man standing in front of a set of stairs which led to a door. The man was of average height, but not any other feature of him was visible to the ex-inspector, the rest of his body blending in easily with the surrounding shadows. However the man, seeming to take notice of Javert's observations, moved forward into the eerie glow that suddenly seemed to light up the room. Javert could not see well enough to make out any details about him…except his eyes. They were dark, and very piercing; in fact, they seemed to bore right through him.

"What-" Javert tried, and began wheezing, spitting red flecks of liquid everywhere. "What's all this?" His voice was hoarse and weak, as though he hadn't spoken a word in ten years. The man smiled contemptuously.

"Ah, my dear Javert," he began solemnly, waving his arms as he shrugged. "You must find your accommodations confusing, as one who has suffered your fate might. But no matter." He dropped his arms slowly, slipping his left hand into a pocket as he did so, eyes tracing the creases in Javert's face closely. "How are you feeling?"

"What…just happened?" the ex-inspector gasped out, coughing harshly, his shoulders wracked with shivers as he pulled his arms around himself. The man gave an amused chuckle.

"What happened, Inspector, or should I say 'ex'-inspector, is that your world has been changed forever. Rejoice! Celebrate!" He made vague gestures with his hands as he grinned in the darkness. "Things that were never yours are yours now."

"That…doesn't explain ANYTHING," Javert ground out through clenched teeth, holding onto his stomach with one hand while gripping the splintered wood of the coffin side with the other. It didn't explain how he'd gotten into this damnable place; that was quite apparent. And the air about this man was disturbing…quite disturbing…"Who are you?"

"Vicomte Dominic Sperazzo," replied the man instantly, sweeping a leg back as he bowed, and outstretching one arm to the side officiously. "My apologies for not introducing myself sooner." He righted himself quickly. "It would have been bad manners to do so while you were resting."

"'Resting'?" Javert's voice was bitter as he struggled to move his legs, but he could not help the minute trace of fear trembling within him. Javert, frightened? Nonsense, why should Javert be frightened by a man such as this? Why was it that the former inspector could not get up and face the newcomer as he normally would? The answer came to him suddenly out of nowhere: unnatural.

The man was unnatural. And somehow Javert knew.

Gathering up some strength, he asked more forcefully, "What business have you with me?"

Dominic smirked. "All the business in the world." He feigned offense. "Dear Javert, I am the one who woke you up."

It was just then that Javert realized Dominic knew his name. His head perked in understanding of this new revelation, and the newcomer laughed disconcertingly. "Oh, I see where your mind takes this! Don't bother wondering about it." He smiled almost warmly, though it was clear the smile was practiced. "I've known you for a while! Much longer than you think." There was a subtle wink. "I have been keeping…a very close eye on you, one might say."

"A close eye," Javert repeated hoarsely. He had been watched? But why? "Answer me directly: who ARE you?" Javert forced out a growl, instantly regretting it as his vocal cords strained under the misuse. It had taken all of his will just to speak. There was something about this man that was very unnatural indeed. Javert couldn't pinpoint it, but it was there. He worked up the nerve to speak once again, the interrogative coming out softer, much more hesitant than he would have liked. "Is it your idea of a joke to make me sleep in a coffin?"

Dominic gave an amused smirk. "A joke? Hardly."

"Then _what_?" Javert demanded, fighting to lift himself out of the musty smelling box. Damn, why couldn't he make his muscles work? The man gave a small sigh and waved off some fleeting thought he had.

"You know, I was under the perhaps misguided impression that you were a logical and observant man. I do hate to think I was wrong about that, but as it stands, you fail to impress me."

"I was under the misguided impression that I did not have to impress anyone," replied Javert dryly.

"Your humor's intact, I see." Dominic followed a falling speck of dust which landed on his shoulder, and flicked it off casually. "Tell me, have you had a chance to look about?"

"What?" snapped Javert, but felt inclined to look around anyway. As he did so, something in his mind clicked into place. He was in a lightless room. It was very dark with the exception of that strange, unnaturally and eerie glow along the bottom of the wall. The room itself was made of stone, and other than Javert's coffin and the strange gentleman, it was empty. The intense, thick smell of dampness and other foul odors seemed to bombard him without any warning, confirming his fears.

"A crypt," the ex-inspector said tonelessly.

"Well, close enough," said Dominic, clasping his hands behind his back. "A vault, at any rate." There was a pause. "You await mass burial."

"Mass burial?" Javert looked horrified for an instant, but it quickly gave way to anger, and his face twisted into an enraged expression. "What are you playing at?" he growled in Dominic's direction. Mass burial?! What was this, some sort of ritual? A plot to murder him? He went with the latter thought. "You're a part of some plot to kill me." Dominic gazed at him guardedly, a smile still on his face.

"That's rather a vast understatement, Javert." He took a step backwards. "Part of it?" He feigned a wounded look. "It would be infinitely more pleasant – and accurate – to say that I was the architect and enactor of this grand scheme."

Javert was stunned. "What?! Why?!" he shouted, and immediately cried out. His voice had been strained too much, and croaked as it gave out. The world swirled around him, and he pitched forward out of the coffin hitting his cheek on the cold, damp, stone floor. An explosion of pain shot through his face, and he lay there helpless. He could not move anything, not even his fingers. Footsteps approached, shoes coming into view as they stopped a few inches away from his nose. Though he couldn't see his face, Javert imagined the strange man smiling that derisive smile again as he looked down on the feeble, vulnerable figure that was Javert.

"I expected no less from you." He almost sounded proud. "But I think this is the best time to take my leave. After all, I expect you'll want answers before I burn to dust." Another chuckle. Javert tried to growl, but all that came out was a pitiful sounding squeak. His voice had gone completely. "Adieu, Javert." The man's clothes rustled as he bowed again, and the footsteps moved away, clacking as they went up the stairs. "We'll meet again soon, I should expect." There was a loud groan of a door moving, and a slam as the same door slammed shut.

Javert was left alone in darkness.

oOo

How long he lay there in the pitch black he could not say; it all blurred together as he faded in and out of consciousness. A flicker here, a bit of something there, an object…he couldn't remember anything. He didn't know what he had been doing prior to waking up here. Of course, he knew his name and his occupation, and…what? What else? No, surely there must be something else! But Javert was left in horror as he realized he couldn't remember anything. There was a flash here and a flash there and…flash… splash – SPLASH! Water! Javert's mind was working at full capacity again. Something to do with water, a bridge. He had been at a bridge, falling…jumping! He had tried to jump off a bridge. To kill himself. But why?

There must have been something. He struggled to find an answer.

Was it a dispute? What had driven him over the edge? What COULD have driven over the edge? Not the law…but confusion regarding law…a man…Valjean. The name popped into his head before he understood the track his mind was on. Yes, that was it. Jean Valjean. That man who had been on the run from the authorities for years. Javert had been tracking him. And when Valjean had Javert at his mercy…he had done the unthinkable: he saved the inspector's life. He, who had made the fugitive's life a living hell, had his actions returned with kindness. The man had saved him. Selflessly. But not just Javert, no, Valjean had saved two lives: he had also saved a revolutionary, for which if he was found out he could be considered treasonous, an act punishable by death. Javert simply could not understand. Thus, he had been determined to kill himself.

But he had dropped into the Seine. During the summer, the Seine swelled to enormous proportions; anyone who fell into it was lost in its unforgiving currents. How was it that Javert survived?

It was just then that the ex-inspector realized he had been holding his breath. Javert released the air in his lungs, but realized curiously that he had not felt out of breath. As a test, he held his breath again. Minutes, he was sure, trailed by. Nothing. Not a hint of fatigue or breathlessness. A seed of fear planted itself in Javert's mind, fear of a terrible idea. No, it was all nonsense.

Hours went by. As Javert lay on the floor of the vault, his fear began to eat at him more and more. He heard things. He heard things beneath him, outside the walls, inside the walls, everywhere. It was an incessant buzzing that seemed to grow louder and louder the more Javert concentrated on it, fueling his anxiety. He…'felt' things. Presences, like the shadows around him, which grew and shrunk at their own will seemed to stick him, there one moment and gone the next, causing Javert to nervously twitch his head in the direction they seemed to be coming from, yet everywhere he looked he saw nothing. What was going on? What was this?

After what seemed like a whole day, Javert began to realize he could move. It was not much, but he did work up the strength to move slowly, groaning as he struggled to get to his feet. He could stand. Barely, but he could stand. Stumbling over to the door, Javert realized that not only was his hearing unnaturally good, but that he could see extraordinarily well despite the fact that the vault was almost pitch black. There was no light anywhere; not a crack proved prominent or even existent in the chamber, yet Javert could make out almost every detail around him. He could see the tiny pebbles on the floor, the nicks in the ceiling, everything. True, he had always had sharp eyes…but not of this magnitude. There was something…something very wrong. Javert made his way to the door, leaning against the stone wall for support, and surprisingly, easily pushed the door open.

It was night. He was in a graveyard, silent and still. The heat hung in the air, creating a dull haze that filled the plot, sweeping inside the open vault where Javert stood in the doorway. Looking about, he forced his feet forward, and made into the yard. Stumbling and navigating through the stones proved even more difficult than walking, and not long after he had started he knocked his knee against one and falling to the ground. As he made to stand up, he realized he could…hear things. He could hear things very, VERY well. No, not like in the vault; those seemed to be mere suggestions of sounds. This was unquestionable. Slivers of conversation, hushed whispers, footsteps hitting the cobblestone disjointedly…these were actual sounds. And these…other feelings…what were they? They were not just sticking his mind now; they were _stabbing_ it. Agony, fear, joy, lust, he felt them all around. He felt their presence within other people. Suddenly he clutched his head, crying out in surprise. A primal sort of feeling began to claw at his brain, demanding, urging, wanting him to…

_"GET OUT!"_ he screamed, his voice stronger than he ever remembered it.

What was going on? What was happening to him? He was frightened, very frightened indeed. But where could he go? Everyone believed him dead. He could not go back to his apartment, could not seek refuge with the police, could not show his face. Who in the world could help him? Dominic was the only one who seemed to know what was going on, and he had vanished.

No…there was one.

That man. Valjean.

Why would Valjean help him? That thought was nonsense. They had been at this little chase for years, and Valjean would certainly not want to see Javert again. He would kill him, or worse, report him. Or would he? No, Valjean was too scared of the police to bother. But what else could Javert do? He was the only one Javert knew who might possibly be able to help. And who knew what would happen if Javert didn't receive some sort of help.

He made his way to his feet, and slowly, limping on his injured leg, made his way to Number 7, Rue de l'Homme-Armé.


	5. Dark Awakenings

She had been watching him wander the empty streets, trailing along after him over the rooftops and darting down alleyways, confident that he did not suspect.

"Poor thing! Homeless child! Sweet and pretty, all alone!"

She wanted to go to him right from the start, the moment he staggered from the vault, clutching his coat tightly closed at the neck. On so humid and thick a night, he fought a chill that grew from within.

"Too soon!" she told herself on anxious breath. "The devil Dominic, does he come again?" Best to watch, safely away for now. So sad-- a mother's concern-- for this was her child, was it not?

Merci quickly filled her head with children's songs and nursery rhymes, crowding out the very human sympathy felt for this Javert. It would not do to have Dominic trespass in her thoughts just now, to find his new plaything lurking there, cradled in protective arms. The monster would know in time, of course; he'd realize what she had been doing in the churchyard when they met. He would learn that it was not his blood that had first revived and claimed the man Javert, but her's. But he wouldn't find out yet, in such a busy, busy brain. All part of the game, safe steps ahead of her maker, Dominic. A game she vowed to win.

"Hush, hush, the angels watch, even up here."

It was enough for now to observe the progress of that darkly handsome corpse as he made his way with awkward purpose to some destination unknown. At least he was not treading a path that would bring him to the Viscount's hall.

Javert continued, unsteadily, his limp nearly forgotten in deference to the other unpleasant sensations that assaulted him. Voices, muted or sharp, from the grey face of houses and more anonymous buildings, sounded as if the conversations took place by his side. Yet the speakers and supplicants, arguing spouses and whimpering children were safe behind walls, floors above or cellars below. He turned up his collar to shield his ears, grown hideously sensitive to every noise. It did no good; he seemed to hear them through his skin.

There were people about, few at this hour, and it was this acute sense that warned him of any such approaching presence. He would slide into the nearest alley or passage, and the shadows of doorways, turning his face away. He would not be seen in such a state of weakness and confusion.

Regardless of his pain, and attempts at evasion, he found himself at last at a gate in the wall of a courtyard. Beyond the garden grown wild, stood the object of his search-- a house in need of some attention, with a light burning in a room on the lower floor. Javert knew – somehow – that Jean Valjean was sitting, reading by that lamp, even at this late hour. He shouldered the gate aside and crossed to the door, idly wondering why it seemed important to do so.

A name, a person who knew him, though not by the grace of good fortune. Perhaps this man who felt a duty to his 'God' could spare him some explanation. Javert did not wish prayers or pity-- but some rationale to his present condition. He raised his fist, hesitated, and then hammered for attention.

Jean Valjean had been lost in a book of fiction, and was startled by the sound. A glance to the mantle clock prompted thoughts of who might be calling at such an hour. The hammering repeated, demanding an answer. Setting his book aside, Valjean rose, tugged his vest into place, and strode to the hall.

Merci was frantic-- what was this?? A social call? She scampered along the top of the wall as deftly as a shadow, and pressed herself flat against the roof, desperate to hear what would transpire.

The bolt was drawn back with a harsh 'clack'-- outside the caller grimaced and bowed his head at the noise. Valjean pulled open the door, half expecting perhaps a boy, set as some messenger. He gasped audibly when Javert's head rose abruptly, locking his gaze with red rimmed eyes.

"Javert?" The word barely escaped Valjean's throat. "You're--- you were reported-- dead!" He could not stop so indelicate a declaration, but it was as if his visitor hadn't even heard.

"I must speak with you." The words were strained, rasping, and yet not without authority.

Valjean thought otherwise; this was a ghost, surely-- Inspector Javert had been declared dead-- his body pulled from the river-- a suicide. The late hour was causing him to see phantoms, and in any event, the Inspector he once knew would never come to his door except to arrest him--- Pulling free of his initial shock, Valjean attempted to close the door to this nightmare.

Javert's hand was suddenly pressed against the paneled oak, and no amount of pressure could close it. How was that possible? How was any of this possible? All color washed from Valjean's face.

"What do you want?"

"Time. I want your time. You must hear me out. I don't know what has happened…is happening. But...I am not…dead."

"They found your body. They identified you. It was in the _Moniteur_."

Valjean could not believe it; by his own argument he was having this conversation with a dead man. His visitor drew in a sharp breath, bowing his head deeply again and letting tendrils of hair blur all distinction. He could almost find some humor in the situation.

"You mustn't believe everything you read." He raised his face again, halfway, those strange eyes almost peering into Valjean's soul. Jean tried to remain calm, even as the Inspector's tone grew angry. "You see me, Valjean-- standing here, in front of you. How can I be dead?" His host drew a sharp breath, standing his full height and feeling defiant in the face of this strange situation.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking." There was only a slight quaver in his voice, but he still insisted. "What do you want from me?"

The argument was exhausting Javert, who still struggled with the sounds and sights that tore his senses. He fell against the door frame for support.

"Let me in, damn you. I'm not well; you can see that--- I must talk to you!" Though his words began to slur, there seemed to be an unnatural growl to them, and a strange animal spark in his dead dark eyes. Valjean felt anxious, and unsure; he owed this man nothing and yet he harbored some deep unspoken loyalty-- perhaps to God as much as to the Inspector. He stepped aside and permitted his visitor to enter.

A few unsteady steps and Javert stood in the hall. He struggled to stand upright, as the door was closed behind him. Then he cocked his head oddly in Valjean's direction.

"They thought I was dead. I woke in a tomb--- in a coffin." His lips curled into a grin, more like a sneer. "In a coffin! What day is it?"

Valjean leveled eyes on the man before him-- the creature that had once been Javert. Could his state be a delirium, caused by the circumstance of having been buried alive?

"June 11th." came the calm reply. "But how could they not realize you were still alive?" Was it possible such a mistake was made? A body floats up in the river, after being lost in the currents-- there must have been an examination, surely. Could Javert have actually survived throughout all of this? And even if such possibility existed, what was he doing here, now?

Had he come merely for conversation? It did not appear he was intending to arrest his quarry of so many years. This was certainly not the man he remembered, but it was wise not to assume anything. Valjean was more careful than that, and pressed his case. "Why did you come here? You haven't told me anything yet."

Javert wandered into the study, standing with his back to Jean. His head twitched and bobbed with a sudden spasm of pain.

"I will tell you something." he hissed. "You have rats in the wall. I hear them…" His words were accompanied by a feeble gesture toward the corner. Then he steadied himself on a desk with stiff arms. "I hear everything, somehow--- Your heart is pounding, Valjean. What…is happening?"

"Inspector. Calm yourself." The older man was fighting his fear, as he stepped cautiously toward his troubled guest. A chill ran through him to catch a glimpse of Javert's face as it tightened with alarm. "Nothing good will come of panic."

Javert turned, leaning back against the desk and clutching at his ears.

"Come no closer!" he demanded. "I cannot stand the sound! Your heart-- your crashing pulse--- You will kill me-- You! Who pretends a belief in your 'God'! Stay back! You are still a convict…and I am still…still…the law."

"All right." Valjean promised softly, keeping a good distance off. He would speak quietly, as his visitor's hearing had certainly increased-- substantially. Or, at least, the man believed as much. "When did this start?"

Placated for the moment, Javert lowered his hands, to brace himself against the desk. He seemed to be listening to yet another noise beyond the range of his host.--- The cat at the kitchen hearth woke and stretched-- He shook his head and attempted an answer.

"In the vault. Someone came to me--a man. Yesterday?" He seemed miles away in thought. "But it makes no sense. None." Once more he leveled his gaze at Valjean. "The 11th you say? If a carpenter can do it, why not an Inspector of Police?" He was rambling, but caught a shred of some splintered logic, by chance. "The man in the tomb…..I think…I have been drugged."

Drugged? And then he made his way to the home of a man he had once vowed to return to prison? As absurd as it seemed, Valjean supposed it was possible-- certainly, under such obvious distress Javert was capable of anything. He thought hard, but only for a moment.

"A damp cloth--" Valjean quickly suggested. "That might ease the pain some. And perhaps some quinine." If the Inspector had indeed been drugged, perhaps a fever had set in. Looking cautiously over his shoulder at his caller, he moved toward the sitting room door.

"You will stop there." Javert spoke with authority, halting his host in his tracks. "Do not leave my sight. I came here, yes, to see you…but I do not trust you." The throbbing ache subsided briefly and the Inspector now spoke clearly for the moment. "Paper. You have paper, here?"

Valjean nodded, but refused to look into those feral eyes.

"Yes. Do you want it?"

"You will write what I say. That you have seen Inspector Javert. And he is…not…dead." His teeth clenched as he spoke, his mind now swarming with images of the man at the vault, and the things said. This did not satisfy Valjean.

"If you've been drugged, you need attention far more that a confirmation of your existence." His voice was stronger now, neutral but full of purpose. He turned again for the sitting room, intent to administer at least some rudimentary care.

"No!"

Javert was on him instantly, leaping to his side in a sudden burst of strength. He clamped a vise-like hand on Valjean's arm to restrain him. Valjean instinctively tried to pull away, but this grip was like iron. Fear rose within him, to see the expression on the Inspector's face, but this look of rage suddenly dissolved to one of torture and shock.

Agony shot up through Javert's arm, as if he had grasped a handful of glass and burning embers-- a thousand flames ripped his flesh. He released his hold and staggered backward in confusion. Valjean fought his urge to panic, struggling to regain at least a calm exterior. Quietly, he took command.

"Sit down."

Mindlessly, Javert obeyed, all but collapsing into the nearest chair.

"I came here…" he mumbled, half dazed. "Why did I come here?"

Now more on his guard than ever, Valjean retreated to the sitting room, quickly gathering the quinine, and to the kitchen for a damp cloth. When he returned to the study, he found Javert as he had left him, mumbling and slumped in his chair. He seemed weak and beaten, and despite the recent outburst, Valjean was moved with pity. He approached him now without hesitation or fear, offering the cloth as a feeble means to help.

"Here. Take this; it will cool your head."

The Inspector would not even look at him. He waved the offer away, still mumbling to no one in particular.

"Fool. I was a fool to come here. You can do nothing. I was an idiot to think…"

Suddenly revived, Javert jumped to his feet, and made his way deliberately for the hall, and the door beyond.

"Javert!"

Valjean dropped the items he'd collected, and rushed after the man before he could leave the house. The burst of energy having passed, Javert was fumbling with the door latch, struggling with twisted, weak fingers to secure an escape. Grimacing, Valjean grabbed the back of Javert's collar, swung him around sharply and pushed him back against the wall. He resisted the urge to back away as far as possible from his once merciless hunter.

"Whatever is wrong with you, you will not go out there until you've recovered some sense!" Had he actually said that? Once the Inspector could recover, he would likely redouble all efforts to bring his prey 'to justice' -- and it would be Valjean himself who had allowed it to happen. Yet, it was not in the convict's nature to let even his enemy fight this thing alone-- whatever ill it was.

Javert's wild eyes opened wide with anger as he hissed in Valjean's face.

"You will keep your hands off me and step away. I was wrong to come here. You can do nothing. You never could. You will stand aside and let me leave." His words carried a vile stench on heated breath, and his inner workings began to churn. Dominic's unholy succor had not left his stomach, though it now threatened to do so.

Valjean grimaced, fighting the urge to gag as the odor choked his breath. He was torn; there was the desire not to help this man who had made his life hell, and had promised to arrest him before his disappearance and-- death? Yet, if Javert was allowed to leave, in his present state he might cause harm to someone--or himself-- and Valjean would bear the blame. It was the repulsive scent of blood that convinced Valjean the Inspector's condition was worse than first suspected.

"Javert, please. You must sit down, and try to remain calm. Something is wrong with you-- terribly wrong. I can't let you leave." He braced himself, leaning slightly forward, preparing to restrain Javert should he try again for the door.

The Inspector stiffened, standing rigid at his full height. Suddenly, there was no expression to his face, save the vacant pallor of a dead man. His eyes rolled back in his head, and lids fluttered closed. For a moment Valjean expected he would swoon, and stood ready to catch him. Instead, Javert lurched forward, bent double and expelled the contents of his stomach with force.

Valjean gasped aloud, and staggered back. The sickening odor of putrid blood made his stomach lurch, the thick greasy color of red-brown pooling on the floor. The door slammed against the wall when Javert torn it open, and bolted into the night. A black shape, rushing into darkness, was quickly swallowed by the shadows.

Valjean leaned against the wall, crossing himself as if for protection in the presence of evil. He did not care now, that the Inspector had escaped, nor that it was unknown what direction was taken. Staring at the horror at his feet, he reached for the door, closed and bolted it, and tried to fight the fearful notion that he had not seen the last of Javert.

oOo

He could not tell how far he had walked after leaving Valjean, or even where he was. Javert's senses, when not bombarded by sharp light, unnatural color and oppressive sound, throbbed as if every nerve was on fire. Where was he going? Was there a need to be anywhere at all? When he at last staggered into an alley, he slumped against the wall for support and groaned.

Everything was a source of pain-- objects assaulted his vision, with changing shape and brightness beyond comprehension. He again reasoned that he must have been drugged, somehow. The man in the crypt again came to mind. 'Think, Javert!' He was choking when awoke in the tomb-- something ran down his chin and was wiped on a sleeve. Something foul, which perhaps caused this strange heightening of senses; caused all sounds of night, however distant or muted, to pierce like daggers-- distorted, loud, echoing. Even the touch of the bricks at his back or fingertips seemed to prick like razors.

Going to Valjean had been a mistake. The one man Javert might have expected to be at least of some use had proven otherwise. Valjean believed he was dead! The convict who had spared his life and rendered kindness when none was expected or due, did not have the wisdom nor insight to see beyond his fear. He would have been better suited to tend a leper, or a stranger.

Further memories of the man in the tomb; a foreign name…the confessed architect of what grand scheme? This man who claimed to have been watching him. And what was that about mass burial? Promises of power, things never known, now being his. The threads were there, but impossible to weave into some fabric of truth in his present state of mind.

Javert's own body was turning against him, attacking from within-- perhaps all he deserved for throwing himself in the Seine. Again he clawed his temples, choking back a wail of pain, and knocked his head against the wall several times, to the drive the horror away.

Merci could bear it no longer. She dropped from the rooftop without a sound.

He was immediately aware of a presence. Pushing his back against the wall, Javert dropped his arms to his side. The touch of the brick tingled, burning his fingertips--- he angled his hands away to prevent contact. Fingers twitched nervously on the air, as if searching for some safety--- even listening for it.

The figure stood far to his right, at the end of the passage, silhouetted by lamps in the street beyond. His mind quieted; nothing in his head was screaming when he looked at her.

Her.

It was female, though details of features were of no consequence. A tangle of hair, ragged clothing, too short for fashion, filtering the light. Worldly logic had not completely left him; his police sense recognized a woman of the streets. Standing again in profile, he braced himself and spoke with as much strength as he could muster,

"Who are you, what do you want?" The demand was quick and firm. Something, suddenly, in the corner of his vision; now she was standing beside him. His gasp was involuntary.

"They call me Merci." She bowed low, like a gentleman. "It isn't my name, but that's what they call me."

"You have no business here. Leave me."

The woman narrowed her eyes in close study, as disturbing as everything else he had been experiencing. He had been lovely, she thought, at rest in his box, even with a touch of sadness-- something unknowable, and immovable. Now, animated, even in distress, there was no loss of beauty, but still a greater sense of that pain. It was not death that had caused it, but the life before. She sniffed at him.

"You aren't well." An understatement; he was dead. "Rather seriously."

"I'm well enough, as if it's any of your business. On your way."

She shook her head. If she refused to leave, Javert would take that responsibility. Without pushing away from the wall-- the only thing keeping him upright-- he turned away and forced himself to take a few steps.

"You won't get far."

There was no hint of menace in her tone, but it sounded to him like a threat, none the less.

"I shall call the police." He wheezed and then coughed in amusement. "I am the police. I'll have you arrested if you don't---"

The pain surged again, like jagged glass thrust through his skull. His brave front abandoned, Javert slid against the wall to the ground. The woman was there instantly, kneeling beside him. Just as quickly, the agony passed.

Oddly now, he was staring at her bare feet, thinking it was foolish to be about the streets without shoes. When he looked up, she smoothed away the lock of hair that obscured his eyes. Quite unlike him not to jerk his head away from such unwanted contact. Thoughts, broken and random, assailed his brain.

"Who are you?"

"Does it matter?"

"A doctor." The idea came to him. Perhaps she may be of use, and under the circumstances, what choice was there? "I need…a physician." Why was she smiling?

"A little late for the doctor, I think."

"What…is happening…"

"No matter. You will come with me."

To this suggestion he bowed his head and shook it firmly in the negative. He may have been drugged, and he was most certainly sick, but he was not incapacitated enough to let some strange, half-dressed, mental defective take him anywhere. When she attempted to take his arms to help him stand, he pushed her hands away with a muted growl. Her only reaction was to tip her head from side to side, while reciting a disjointed rhyme in sing-song. Javert found her presence further unsettling, yet when she was close at hand, the pain seemed to subside.

"Leave me." he moaned weakly. "Let me be." He had no strength left to fight, and despite intentions, could feel himself slipping away. "Let me die."

"Too late."

Merci gripped the front of his coat with one hand, and stood him up against the wall with little effort. His head bobbed in surprise, and then Javert gave himself up to a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Time to go." she whispered. "Someplace quiet to rest, I think. Hmmm. You have very nice boots."


End file.
